


Four Days in September

by lightspire



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fluff, Romance, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What might have happened if Clara hadn’t walked into that bookstore, on that fateful day in late September?</p><p>Time Period: Four days in late September, roughly 3 months after Death in Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**+++ TODAY: Monday, 29 September, 9 p.m. +++**

 

“Clara, NO! He’ll kill you!” The Doctor shouted above the roar of the rushing river that separated him from his companion.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins, and Clara made a split-second decision.

“Doctor! Catch!” She threw the ruby-stoned ring high in the air, and it glinted in the moonlight as it arced towards him.

The Doctor leaped up to catch it, his sonic held high and projecting a force field towards the ring. But before he could grab it, a black, razor-tipped claw snatched the ring out of midair. The owner of the claw cackled and snarled with malicious glee.

“It is mine! You’ve failed, Doctor, and now you will pay!” it shrieked.

The furry alien turned towards the Doctor, aimed the ruby stone at him, and fired.

 

**+++ THREE DAYS AGO: Friday, 26 September, 4:30 p.m. +++**

 

Clara browsed in her favorite East-London bookshop, her fingers fluttering over the rows of books without touching them. She scanned the titles, her hand hovering like a dowsing rod waiting for that magnetic pull of water below the surface. She was listening for her inner voice, her muse, to speak through that little tingle that said, “Choose me” when her fingers passed over the right volume.

The bookstore, named _Carpe Librum_ , faced St. George’s Street. It was long and narrow, squeezed in between an art gallery and an estate agent’s, and ran the full length of the brick building from front pavement to back alleyway. Dark wooden bookshelves covered the walls from floor to high ceiling. Low shelves and tables in the middle of the store were piled high with new and used titles, neatly arranged by genre. Clara’s heeled black boots clicked quietly on the shop’s waxed wooden floors, worn smooth from decades of wear, as she wandered among the shelves. She inhaled deeply, drinking in the welcoming scents of lemon furniture polish, book-dust, ink, and promises. 

Clara had always felt safe here, as though in the company of friends, both old and as-yet unmet, which was why she had stopped here on her way home from Coal Hill School. Her bruised heart needed cheering. She came seeking comfort among the shelves and stacks filled with the only companions that had never let her down.

The shop cat, an orange and black calico with one blue eye and one green, was curled up in the front window, stealing the golden warmth of a rare late September afternoon sunbeam. Clara had stopped to scratch it behind the ears as she came in, ringing the little bronze bell as the door swung open, and the cat had purred appreciatively.

  _At least one creature in the universe likes me_ , she supposed, and sighed sadly.

No one else had been happy with Clara recently: not her students, who were annoyed by the lengthy essay she’d assigned on _Love’s Labors Lost_ , nor her in-laws (though they never seemed happy with anyone), nor Thomas…the latest victim in a string of disastrous almost-dates. She was trying to move on, and failing miserably.

It was days like these that she really missed the Doctor.

Ever since that too-sunny morning in Glasgow when she and the Doctor and had parted forever, Clara had spent her days in a numb haze of grief and loss.

She sighed again. Her well-meaning Gran had set her up on a blind date last weekend, which Clara had reluctantly agreed to, so as not to hurt her feelings. Thomas, a computer programmer from south London, had been sweet enough, but not really her type – too much of a homebody, and at 35, still too young for her tastes. He was not destined to be page one of her life’s journey, merely another footnote, like so many other sweet-but-ultimately-dull boys before him.

Boys like Danny. A flood of guilt surged through Clara at the memory, and it hit her viscerally, like a punch in the gut.

_Isn’t it odd_ , she thought, _that hearts make no sound when they break_.

“I understand,” Thomas had said, a polite smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe you’ll find your Marcus Aurelius, one day,” he’d added, knowingly. They’d parted after a pleasant but short-lived meal of cheap Italian food and even cheaper Chianti.

_I found him…and I lost him_ , she’d thought to herself, her eyes cast down at her hands as they rested on the red-checked tablecloth. Thomas had stood up then, and left without a backwards glance.

Clara wandered the bookstore, her head leaning to one side as she read the titles in the poetry section, muttering under her breath.

“Stupid…read it…boring… read that one…ugh, _no_ ,” and sighed. None of the books looked alluring enough to distract her from the agitation and guilt she felt.

Then, her fingertips brushed over the spine of an old, slightly tattered ivory and black volume, and tingled.

_Choose me_.

Curious, she plucked the book from the table and read the title: _New Hampshire_ by Robert Frost. Clara’s heart skipped a beat. The book’s cover was decorated with a woodblock print of a pastoral scene, featuring glacier-smoothed mountains, tall deciduous trees, a farmhouse, and billowy white clouds. She flipped open the inside flyleaf to check the date: 1923. Her hands trembled a little as she realized that she held in her hands a rare first edition copy of one of her favorite books of poetry. And it was signed. 

The inscription read: “To my dear friend JS: Thank you for taking me down the road less traveled. -- Robert Frost.”

A thin white piece of paper stuck out of the top of the book; probably a bookmark left by a previous owner. Clara often found bits of paper, shopping lists, business cards, scraps of envelopes and one time, a pressed rosebud, scattered in the books she bought, and wondered about the readers who came before her who’d left them there. People fell out of the world sometimes, but they always left traces. 

She flipped the book open to the page marked by the piece of paper: _Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening_ , one of her favorite poems. Someone, perhaps even the owner of the bookmark, had underlined the last stanza in pencil:

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

 

The bookmark dropped from the book and landed on the table. Clara picked it up and studied the writing on it: it was a business card. The card, too, was ivory with age, like the book in which it had nestled. In an elaborately scrolled typeface engraved in faded black ink were the words:

 

Somewhere In Time

Curiosities, Antiques, and Oddities for the Discerning Collector

Ambrose Braithwaite, Proprietor

 

Charmed by the old-fashioned formality of the card, she tucked it into her pocket, and closed the book. She hugged the volume to her chest and made her way to the counter to ask a price. A rarity such as this would cost a weeks’ pay surely, but she really, really wanted it. This book was coming home with her, one way or another.

Mrs. Eleanor Cahill, the shop owner, was away from the store and a teenage clerk temporarily managed the till in her place. The blonde girl, dressed in tight blue jeans and a pink hoodie and not a day over nineteen, took the book from Clara’s hand. She flipped it over, thumbed through the pages, and peered at the cover, looking for a price tag.

Finding none, she said: “How about 20 quid?”

Clara instantly felt guilty – the book was worth twenty times as much, but she quickly silenced her scruples, handed over a few notes, and scurried out the door before her conscience made her turn around. She’d make it up to Mrs. Cahill somehow, eventually.

Clara walked home in the fading afternoon light. Reaching her flat, she pulled her keys out of her pocket, and the business card came with them, falling to the floor, face down. Clara bent to pick it up, and noticed something written on the back of the card -- something she’d missed before. There was a date and time written on the back of the card. 27 September, 2:15 p.m., it said. Tomorrow. She cocked an eyebrow.

“Huh,” she said aloud. _Now what does_ that _mean?_

Intrigued, Clara looked up the name of the shop online. To her surprise, it still existed, and by sheer coincidence it was not far from her house.

“Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained…” she said to the empty air in her flat. She tucked the card back into the poetry book, laid it on the coffee table, and went to make tea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara visits an antique shop. An amazing array of oddities fills the shop, but the proprietor is perhaps the strangest curiosity of them all. Little does she realize that someone else is watching her....

**+++ TWO DAYS AGO: Saturday, 27 September 2:00 p.m. +++**

 

Clara almost missed the shop. The front of it consisted only of a nondescript wooden door with no windows, its grimy olive-green paint chipped and faded by years of relentless London drizzle and smog. A small, tarnished brass sign reading “Somewhere In Time” was screwed onto the door. She tried the handle, and finding the door unlocked, opened it to discover a narrow stairway leading up to the first floor. The door creaked on its hinges as she pushed it open and walked inside.

“ _Very atmospheric_ ,” she thought, rolling her eyes. “ _What’s next, a zombie butler_?”

As she closed the door behind her, she didn’t notice the black-leather clad figure watching her from across the street. He leaned against a lamppost, took out a pack of cigarettes, tamped it on his thigh, pulled one out and lit it with a snap of his lighter…and waited.

Clara climbed the wooden stairs, each step groaning underfoot as she ascended. At the top she found herself in a dimly-lit room filled with shelves overflowing with the most motley assortment of things imaginable. It was a bit like the TARDIS storeroom, she realized, and her heart died a little inside at the memory.

She wove her way between the shelves, looking around in wide-eyed wonder at the collection of items that seemed to have no rhyme or reason to them. A dusty red wind-up toy robot shaped suspiciously like a miniature Dalek sat next to a crystal art-deco soap dish with a tarnished silver rim. A vintage matchbox, with the faded words “Everlasting Matches” printed on the side, sat cradled in the palm of a carved stone hand, which had broken off at the wrist. A dusty fishing pole and net leaned in one corner along with a jumble of snowshoes and a broken wooden ski. Several aluminium aerosol cans without labels sat on a high shelf next to a glass jar full of green murky liquid, inside which a pickled brain floated. One of the spray cans seemed to be leaking and had a sinister smell about it, and Clara quickly moved past it.

She finally reached the back of the shop, where she found, she assumed, the owner, sitting behind a counter, bent forward and deeply engrossed in a book. He was so absorbed in his reading that he didn’t notice her for a minute, which gave her a chance to study his peculiar features. Oddities, indeed, filled the shop, but the proprietor was perhaps the strangest curiosity of them all.

He was short, and had straight black hair with a shock of white that ran completely over the top of his head and down his neck. His hair was slicked back in the style that gentlemen wore a century ago. A neatly cropped white beard covered the lower half of his face. A pair of half-round spectacles perched on his nose, and a folded plaid handkerchief peeked from the pocket of his emerald-green waistcoat. He clutched his book tightly, and Clara couldn’t help but notice his strange, claw-like fingernails adorned with black nail polish. He distinctly reminded her of a badger from _The Wind in the Willows_.

Clara coughed once, to get his attention. “Um. Excuse me. Sorry to bother you….”

“Oh!” the proprietor looked up at her, and Clara could swear she saw his ears prick up a bit. A weasel-like expression crept into his eyes, and he licked his lips. “Welcome young lady. How may I help you?” his voice was smooth and flattering.

“Um, just browsing … Mister Braithwaite, is it?” She had the distinct impression that he viewed her as … well, as prey; an innocent customer that he might just swindle out of a few pounds today. “I didn’t want to startle you,” she said.

“Please, please… call me Ambrose,” he oozed, and held out his hand for her to shake.

She didn’t take it, but smiled a tight smile instead. “Clara.”

“Nice to meet you _Clara_. I always like to get to know my customers better.” She raised an eyebrow at him, questioning. “My customers are…ah… most discerning, shall we say,” he continued. “It’s important that I know them well enough to … ah… accommodate… their _unique_ needs.”

No one ever came into Ambrose’ shop without knowing exactly what they wanted – it was that kind of shop.

“OK,” she replied, not sure what else to say. She checked her watch: 2:15. 

“Take your time and look around, _Clara_.” His tone was positively oily. Let me know if I can help you with anything,” he said, and winked at her.

She flinched at that, and turned to explore the shelves further. There was no one else in the shop, and no sign of anything exciting happening, so she decided to investigate for a few more minutes before leaving.

“Here’s a pretty little thing,” Ambrose said, winding up a small inlaid wooden music box. Clara turned to watch him as he opened it. Inside, a pink plastic ballerina spun around to the Habanera suite from the opera _Carmen_. Clara stared at it for a minute, and felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Something…some memory…tickled at the edges of her mind … she shuddered, and looked away.

“No, of course not,” the shopkeeper noticed her reaction and hastily closed the music box, “I can see that the lady has more discriminating taste than this, naturally.”  

Clara needed to shake off the feeling that someone had just walked over her grave, so she wandered over to another glass case and peered at the things inside. Sparkly gems, jewelry, rings, brooches, and bracelets glinted back at her from their velvet-lined trays.

“Ah, I see you have found the treasures,” the shopkeeper said, following her over to the case. “Is there anything in particular that catches your fancy?” He slipped a key on a chain from around his wrist, and unlocked the back of the case.

“May I see those?” she pointed to a tray of rings.

“But of course,” he replied, though he looked disappointed. “Those are all copies, I’m afraid. Are you sure you might not be interested in something a little more … authentic?”

“No, this’ll do,” Clara said, relieved that she hadn’t accidentally chosen something expensive. “May I?” She reached out to touch the rings.

“Go right ahead.”

One ring in particular had caught her eye, and she felt a little tingle in her fingertips as she picked it up.

 

_Choose me._

 

Interesting. That only ever seemed to happen with books. She held the ring close to her face, and studied it intensely. It was an unusual mix of colors. A large but not gaudy square ruby gem sat in the center of the ring. Two faceted pale blue round stones, one on either side, offset it, and all the stones were mounted in a simple silver setting. She tried it on the third finger of her right hand, and admired it. It fit perfectly.

“Just a pretty bauble,” the shopkeeper sighed. “The stones are all glass.”

Clara nodded. It _was_ a pretty little nothing, but it caught the light and it reminded her of _him_. Ruby for the crimson lining of the Doctor’s coat, blue for his eyes, and silver for his hair. Her chest tightened. It hurt to remember, and she nearly put the ring back into the tray, but stopped. She didn’t want to remember -- but she never, ever wanted to forget, either. That was one human superpower she intended to resist.

She wondered if the Doctor still thought of her -- if he missed her as much as she missed him. Did he forget sometimes that she’d gone, calling out “Clara!” into the echoing hallways of an empty TARDIS … until the sound died out when he remembered that she wasn’t there? The way she sometimes called out, “Doctor!” in the night, her voice wrapped around his name like a lover’s kiss; a kiss that had never happened except in her dreams? Clara’s throat tensed and she sighed, sadly – she’d never know. And someday she’d need to move on, but today was not that day. 

“I’ll take it,” she said, reaching for her bag.

 She paid for the ring, then pulled out her mobile to check for messages. None. Since Danny had died and the Doctor had left her life, her phone had become eerily quiet. She noticed the time: 2:42 p.m., long enough after the mysterious “2:15” scribbled on the back of the business card for her to decide that it probably meant nothing. Clara still had marking to do back at home, so she took one last look around the shop, thanked Mister Braithwaite, and left. As he watched her go, he nibbled on one of his claw-like fingernails, lost in thought.

“Strange girl,” he muttered to himself, and returned to his book.

Ten minutes after Clara left, a heavily tattooed young man barged into the shop. He wore a ripped black leather vest studded with steel spikes, skin-tight black leather pants with a chain belt, spiked wrist cuffs, and motorcycle boots. A peroxide-bleached Mohawk bristled from his otherwise shaved head like a crown. He strode straight up to Ambrose, jangling as he walked, and leaned angrily over the counter towards him. A lit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. 

“Spike.” said Ambrose. “You’re late. And put that thing out, willya?”

Spike pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and crushed it in his bare hands, crumbling tobacco ash all over the counter. Ambrose brushed at it, disgusted, but didn’t dare say anything. Spike tugged at the steel rings in his left ear. “I couldn’t very well come in with that bird in here could I?” 

Ambrose’s nose twitched, and he nervously scratched his hand through his beard.

“Guess not,” he said apprehensively. “What do you want from me anyway?”

“Not much,” Spike said, his dark beady eyes glinting. “Just a little something. A ring.” He rubbed at the tip of his nose, smudging it black with tobacco ash.

“Oh. Is that all. Whatever you want, Spike. Did you have anything special in mind, or do you just want, I dunno, something with metal on it?”

Spike sneered, and peered down into the glass case to look at the rings.  Suddenly, he looked up, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Where is it? What have you done with it?” 

“What?” yelped Ambrose, worried. “Done with what?”

 “The little red and blue number. Where. Is. It!” Spike growled.

“The lady. The one who just left. I sold it to her. Was it important?”

“You IDIOT!” Spike roared. Ambrose tried to jerk back away from him but Spike had grabbed him by the collar of his waistcoat. “I told you to keep that one to yourself!”

“Whatever for? It’s just a bit of glass. She wanted it, I sold it to her, so what.”

“So what? So WHAT?” Spike reared over the counter and shouted into Ambrose’s face. “That wasn’t just a ring, you fool. That was a _bomb_.” 

Ambrose swallowed. Spike continued. “And you,” he poked him hard in the chest, “are going to get it back for me. Or else.” He bared his teeth, showing a row of sharpened fangs, and licked his lips hungrily. “Are we clear?”

Ambrose nodded, and Spike released him, shoving him backwards. “Good.” You’ve got twenty-four hours or … and he drew a clawed hand across his throat and made a sickening noise, “snkkkkt!” He turned and stormed out of the shop.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner date just got interesting.

**+++ ONE DAY AGO: Sunday, 28 September +++**

 

Nothing ever happens on Sunday; Sundays are boring.

 

**+++ TODAY: Monday, 29 September, 3 p. m. +++**

 

The headmaster interrupted Clara’s class at 3:00 p.m., near the end of a lesson on Jane Austen.

“Clara, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a call from the police. You’re flat’s been broken into. Of course you can leave at once – I’ll get Adrian to cover for you.”

Clara rushed home to find her place ransacked, tables overturned, drawers emptied, settee cushions ripped, and everything an utter shambles. A policewoman was taking a statement from her elderly next-door neighbor, Glenda Longbottom. Glenda had heard crashing noises and called the police, but by the time they arrived the perpetrator had fled.

The policewoman dusted for prints, took some photographs, made a report and offered vague promises, then disappeared. Clara wandered around aimlessly for a while, picking up things and trying to tidy. Everything was a mess, but bizarrely, almost nothing appeared to have been taken. The only things missing were things she couldn’t or didn’t really care to report: a bazoolium weather predictor from the market on Akhaten, a Venusian spearmint toothbrush, and a red wooden cricket ball.

Clara suddenly felt overwhelmed. She needed to get out of here, get some food, and get away from the sense of being utterly violated and alone.

Just then, her phone signaled an incoming text. She didn’t recognize the number, but flicked the note open anyway. It was a message from Ambrose Braithwaite.

“Can’t talk here. Urgent we meet. Emperor Tso’s Chinese restaurant, Lisle Street. Chinatown. 7pm, tonight.”

Clara texted back: “Are you asking me on a date?”

A few seconds later: “No. I’m trying to save your life.”

_Well then_.

Clara wasn’t at all sure she should trust this guy, but things had already been so weird today, and she wanted some answers about the robbery. Maybe he knew something. Besides which, her growling stomach reminded her, she was hungry, and a Chinese restaurant sounded much better than a forlorn cup-a-soup for dinner.

“I’ll be there,” she typed, and hit SEND.

 

**+++ TODAY: Monday, 29 September, 7 p.m. +++**

 

Clara sat at a table facing the door. All around her, dozens of patrons, almost all of them Asian, chatted in Mandarin, Cantonese, and several other dialects she didn’t recognize. The menu was printed entirely in Chinese characters. Without the TARDIS translation circuits to aid her, Clara felt embarrassingly ignorant, and very vulnerable. She hadn’t realized how much confidence the translation circuits had given her, and the thought stung – yet another thing to miss about life without the Doctor.

She wondered if she should just pick a random number off the menu, and hope for the best. Maybe this time it wouldn’t turn out to be pickled fish eyeballs (not her favorite). She fiddled nervously with the packet of bamboo chopsticks that had been set on the table in front of her, her eyes flicking often towards the door. Where was Ambrose?

The door to the restaurant opened and a very tall, very familiar silver-haired gentleman dressed in a dark suit, white button-up shirt, and blue waistcoat filled the doorway.

_What the hell is he doing here?_ Clara was stunned. It was the Doctor.

Clara quickly ducked behind her menu and watched the Doctor as he greeted the restaurant owner, who had rushed to meet him at the door. The owner was a middle-aged Chinese-American, going by the sound of his accent; he had pumped the Doctor’s hand warmly and beamed at him the instant he’d walked in.

“Chang Lee! You old criminal,” the Doctor’s voice boomed in welcome. “How’s business? How’s Grace these days? Still chairing the Hospital Board?”

“Oh yeah, workaholic, as always,” Lee replied. “Your usual table, then, Doctor?” He gestured to a private booth at the back of the restaurant, right behind where Clara was sitting. The Doctor’s eyes followed Lee's hand, and that’s when he spotted her.

He froze, riveted to the floor, and stared in disbelief.

Clara’s eyes locked with his, and his gaze bore into her.

In the next instant, he strode purposely towards her and stared down to where she sat. Chang Lee watched the Doctor move towards Clara, quickly sized up the situation, and left them alone.

“Hello,” she said. 

“Hello.”

Then, in unison, words tumbled out of their mouths: “What the hell are you doing here?”

They froze again, shocked into silence. But then the Doctor laughed.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

“Yeah. Likewise.” She tilted her head. “But, really, what are you doing here? What happened to being queen of Gallifrey?”

“Um.” He looked down at his hands. “Yeah. About that….”

Realization dawned and Clara’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t find it, did you.” It was a statement rather than a question.

He looked at her, a guilty expression on his face. “Can I sit down? This could take awhile.” She waved her hand in assent.

“Explain,” she said.

“Clara, I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but this isn’t the time for that conversation. It’s urgent that you tell me why you’re here. You never come here…I’d know.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, and frowned. More mysteries.

The Doctor finally seemed to realize that she was alone. “Where’s Danny? Home doing his marking, I suppose?”

“Ah.” It was Clara’s turn to look down at her hands. “About that….”

“No Danny, then,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” He put a hand over hers in a comforting gesture, and she welcomed it with every fiber of her being. She had _missed_ him, terribly.

“We can discuss all that later, and we will, Clara. I promise,” he said. “But right now I need to know – Why. Are. You. Here?

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Oh.” The Doctor took his hand from Clara’s. “Of course. You’re moving on with your life. Good for you…”

She interrupted him. “No. Not like that. I got a text from the guy in the shop. Things have happened, Doctor. First I met this weird badger man, and then I was robbed, then I got this message and he says my life is in danger, and now you are here and…” her words poured out of her as though they might never stop.

“Robbed! What? Are you OK?” he interrupted. Relief flooded his face when she nodded yes. “Wait,” he continued, “Did you say badger-man? Short guy with glasses, greasy hair, runs a questionable antique shop?”

Clara nodded again. 

“Oh Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara …” her name was like music as it tumbled from his lips. “I thought you’d have learned by now not respond to messages from shopkeepers,” he admonished her.

“Well if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” she replied. “Besides, I’d never have met you if I did that.”

“Fair point.”

“Now I’ve told you why I’m here, but why are _you_ here, Doctor?”

“Best Chinese food in the galaxy,” he replied, grinning. He looked over at Chang Lee, who waved at them from behind his counter. “Lee and I go way back.”

“Really?” Clara looked surprised.

“We kind of saved each other’s lives and rescued the Universe from the Master one time….”

“The usual, you mean,” she said, and laughed. “Promise me you’ll never change, Doctor.”

He looked at her oddly for a moment, then said, “Change can be a good thing, Clara.” After a pause, he smiled, and added, “But you’re right. Yeah. The usual. Besides -- he lets me come here for free. Even Time Lords gotta eat, you know.” Clara just shook her head and smirked.

The waiter arrived to bring them glasses of water and take their orders.

She handed her menu to the Doctor. “I can’t read this anymore, since…” she began, her voice trailing off. “Order for me?”

“You trust me?” he asked, and raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief.

“Always,” she smiled, inwardly both relieved and astonished at how easily they had slipped back into a familiar camaraderie, as though the last three months apart had never happened.

The Doctor spoke to the waiter in perfect Mandarin, then he added, in English, “I’ll need that in takeaway boxes, please. In case it turns out that we’re in a bit of a hurry. Which does seem to happen to me quite a lot. So, thanks.”

“I hope you got me something fabulous. I was robbed today, remember?”

“Tell me.” The look of utter concern on his face nearly melted Clara’s heart completely. “Are you sure you’re all right?” He covered her hand with his own again.

She reached up with her thumb and gently stroked the side of his palm, and was surprised that he didn’t flinch or try to pull away at all. He didn’t even look down at their clasped hands, but held eye contact with her as they talked. That was twice, now, in as many minutes, that he’d touched her. Something had definitely changed for him, and Clara wondered what it was.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just shaken. They didn’t take anything … well only that bazoolium weather predictor you bought me on Akhaten, and that red cricket ball you left in my flat after we got back from the match at Lord Cranleigh’s place.” She didn’t mention the Venusian toothbrush, as she’d ‘borrowed’ it from a cupboard in the TARDIS without asking. 

“Oh. That’s not good,” he said, frowning. He took his hand back and rubbed it over his face, absently stroking his thumb over his bottom lip in thought. That means they were looking for alien tech. Someone thinks you have something they want. I’m guessing they’re not going to stop looking until they find it. Ambrose was right about one thing, Clara – your life may very well be in danger.” 

Clara looked shaken, but then the Doctor’s words sunk in. “Alien tech … wait. Are you telling me that cricket ball is alien?” 

The Doctor looked away, sheepish, then back at her. “I may have fiddled with it. A bit.”

“You cheated!”

The Doctor shrugged. “I’m not as good a bowler as I used to be,” he stroked his left lapel absently. “Maybe I should eat more celery.”

The waiter brought their food, and they took out their chopsticks and began to eat. Clara was relieved to find that her container held a fragrant mixture of perfectly seasoned prawns, chicken, vegetables, and noodles. Not a pickled fish eyeball in sight. It was delicious.

The Doctor’s expression turned grave. “Ambrose Braithwaite is an alien.”

“I knew it!” she exclaimed around a mouthful of broccoli, and smacked her palm on the table, making their water glasses wobble. “He’s a space-badger!” 

“Tivolian, actually, but close enough.” The Doctor continued, “He’s also a swindler and a smuggler. UNIT have had their eye on him for years. Most of the stuff in his shop is fake, but once in awhile there are some very real and very dangerous alien artifacts mixed in that he doesn’t realize are real…and no one should have in their possession.”

“Like what, alien weapons or something?” she asked, and slurped up some noodles.

“Top of the class, Teach. You didn’t buy anything from that old fraud, did you Clara?” he asked between bites of vegetables and steamed rice. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Only this,” she said, holding up her right hand and showing him the ring. She took the ring off and handed it to him. “Is there anything weird about it?”

He peered closely at it, his brows furrowed. “Can’t tell for sure. We’ll need to take it back to the TARDIS so I can scan it properly.” 

_We_. He’d said we. 

“You mean I can come with you?” she asked, hope flickering across her face. 

“Of course you can…” his voice trailed off, and he looked at her with a “Why would you even ask that?” expression on his face, then down at the ring again. “Clara, why did you choose this particular ring? Was there anything strange about it? Anything special at all?”

Clara blushed, and looked at him, embarrassed.

“Well if you must know…it reminded me of you.”

The Doctor raised both eyebrows. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. You know. Your coat?” she pointed to the red gem. “And…other things.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, then at the ring, then back at her face again. “Anything else? Any weird sensations in your fingers, like shocks, anything like that?”

“Now that you mention it,” she said, “my fingers did tingle a little when I held my hand over it. But that’s not why I bought it.” She gazed meaningfully into his steel-blue eyes, until he looked away, opened his jacket, and put the ring into his inside pocket, next to the sonic. 

Their waiter brought fortune cookies.

“Oh, I love these!” The Doctor exclaimed. “Almost as great an invention as edible ball bearings.”

Clara snapped open her cookie, unfolded the white slip of paper and read:  

 

_RUN!_

 

She showed it to the Doctor, who raised both eyebrows and quickly broke open his own cookie to read the paper.

 

_I’m serious! RUN you idiots!_

 

Just then, Spike appeared at the door and tried to shove his way past Lee, who had moved to block him.

“RUN!” the Doctor shouted, jumping up from the table. Clara stood up so quickly that her chair fell over. 

“Go the back way!” shouted Lee, who stuck his foot out as Spike ran towards the Doctor's and Clara’s table, sending the alien tumbling to the floor.

“I owe you one!” The Doctor shouted, dashing towards the kitchens.

“You always do!” they heard Lee yell after them.

Clara and the Doctor raced through the kitchens, shouting apologies as they dodged steaming woks, busboys with bins of dirty dishes, and startled cooks, and bolted through the back door. They ran down the alleyway and out along the street, heading, Clara hoped, for wherever the Doctor had parked the TARDIS.

 “What _was_ that?” Clara shouted, gasping for breath. “It looked like a human hedgehog!”

“I’m not sure and since it’s trying to kill us I don't think we should stop to find out!” The Doctor yelled back. 

They heard a noise close behind them, and were surprised to see Spike bounding down the street after them, bearing down on them with inhuman speed.

“Definitely alien!” The Doctor shouted, “This way!” he steered them into another alley lined with rubbish bins and crawling with stray cats.

Spike rounded the corner after them, closing the gap between himself and his prey.

The Doctor reached behind him, sonic held out at arm’s length. It whirred to life, and a dozen rubbish bins tumbled into the alleyway right in front of the alien. Spike howled with rage, and the Doctor grabbed Clara’s hand.

“Faster! We’re nearly there!” Together they put on a burst of speed, taking advantage of the Doctor’s delay tactics, and turned left at the next corner.

As they neared the TARDIS, which was parked in someone’s front garden, the Doctor raised his right hand and snapped his fingers. The doors flew open and they rushed in. He snapped again and the doors slammed shut behind them as they threw themselves against the railings, fighting for breath.

Clara had never been so glad to be anywhere in her life. Overjoyed, she swung over to the console, and kissed it. The TARDIS hummed a little welcoming hum, and warmth spread through Clara’s body, all the way to her toes, chasing away the blackness.

The Doctor ran down a flight of stairs, pulled a gadget from the TARDIS tool box, ran back up to the main platform, and connected the gadget to some wires under the console. He pulled the ring from his pocket, and scanned it.

“Oh. Not good. Not good at all.”

The Doctor picked up an ordinary screwdriver and pried the red gem off the ring. A small silver cube popped out, and he held it gingerly in his palm.

“What is it Doctor? A data chip? A weapon?”

The Doctor put the screwdriver down, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at the ring, a bit awed. He held the silver cube a little farther from his face.

“It’s a Chula dimensional displacement bomb. That thing could punch a hole right through the planet.”

“A Chula what what? Did you say bomb? In that tiny thing?” she asked, dubious.

“Dimensional, remember? It’s bigger on the inside. That’s one nasty little piece of kit you’ve been waltzing around London with, Clara.”

Clara’s face went ashen. “Oh god….” She’d worn the ring to school. 

“Good thing we got ahold of it before that alien did.”

“What do we do, Doctor?”

The Doctor sighed.  “Ambrose wants it back, that hedgehog punk wants it, and who knows who else wants to get their grubby paws on it."

"We destroy it, then," said Clara.

"No. We can’t just destroy it – they’ll keep hunting us until they get it or actually see it obliterated before their eyes.”

“So, time for one of your brilliant plans, then?” she smiled at him.

“It’s not a plan, it’s a thing,” he said, waving his hands around. “It might grow up to become a plan later after a lengthy and angst-ridden adolescence, but right now it still wets the bed at night.” He paused, frowning. “No, wait. Forget I ever said that…”

The Doctor tinkered with the ring for a few minutes, reattached the red stone, then handed the ring back to Clara. She looked at him, suspicious.

“Seriously?”

“Clara, you have to trust me. It’s the only way.”

She nodded once, and slipped the ring on. The look that flickered across his face when she did that for him was a blend of awe, gratitude…and something else. Guilt? Before she could figure it out, he turned to the console and typed some coordinates into the keyboard, then scurried around to the drive lever and flipped it.

“Where are we going?”

“To make Ambrose an offer he can’t refuse,” the Doctor looked serious. “I hope.”


	4. Chapter 4

**+++  TODAY: Monday, 29 September, 9 p.m.  +++**

 

The TARDIS materialized on the bank of a swiftly flowing tributary to the Thames, more of a wide, unnamed ditch filled with dark swirling water than a proper river. The Doctor and Clara stepped out, and surveyed the junk-strewn landscape. Clara switched on the torch she held in her hand, and swept the beam over the gravel-strewn riverbank. Tires, rusted metal and bits of plastic rubbish littered the shoreline and glinted in the light from her torch. Scruffy looking clusters of ferns and water-grasses overhung the steep sides of the riverbank, their straggly ends trailing down into the water.

Although it was dark outside, a full moon and the sulfur-tinged glow from nearby street lights lit up the surrounding landscape just enough for Clara to guess that they were somewhere in north London.

“Clara, you stay here,” the Doctor warned, his voice a loud whisper, “in case you need to get back to the TARDIS in a hurry. Remember, Braithwaite is an alien, and he’s more dangerous and stronger than he looks.”

“But….”

“Clara, please, don’t argue,” he interrupted. “Negotiations with the Tivolians can be tricky – a devious bunch if I’ve ever met one,” he added, “And of course, I have.”

She closed her mouth, nodded, and folded her arms.

A narrow iron footbridge spanned the river near the spot where they landed, and the Doctor crossed over. He then walked several meters downstream, his black boots crunching on the water-smoothed gravel that lined the river’s bank. Clara followed him on the opposite shore, keeping pace with him. He stopped at a large clump of overhanging ferns, and pulled it aside to reveal an enormous hole that opened into the eroded side of the riverbank. It looked like nothing so much as an animal’s den, and Clara wondered for a moment if the Doctor had finally gone completely bananas.

“Hey! Ambrose! I’m here to make you an offer,” he yelled into the hole.

Clara had seen far stranger things than the Doctor yelling into a hole in the side of a riverbank, but the scene suddenly struck her as funny, rather than deadly serious. She giggled.

After a long moment, Ambrose Braithwate popped his head out of the hole, his nose twitching in the air.

“Oh. It’s you. What do you want?” Ambrose looked past the Doctor; when he spotted Clara pacing back and forth on the far bank, his beady eyes narrowed. “And what is _she_ doing here?” He pointed a clawed hand at her. “She’s supposed to be dead.”

This last statement infuriated the Doctor, who’s voice dropped to a low, threatening growl.

“I’ll make you a deal. Leave this planet now, and never come back.” He pulled two red velvet bags filled with gold dust out of his pocket, and tossed them on the ground in front of the hole. “That’s for your trouble. It should more than cover the cost of your shop and be enough left over for you to start up another business. Far away from here. A reputable one this time please.”

The alien sneered at him. “Nice try, Doctor,” he said, climbing out of his den and standing up to his full height, which only reached to the middle of the Doctor’s chest. He peered at the Doctor through his spectacles and placed his hands on his hips, seemingly not at all intimidated by the much taller Time Lord.  “My reputation as a smuggler is worth more than you can possibly ever pay me.”

“Really?” the Doctor asked, arching an eyebrow and pulling out one more bag of gold from his pocket. He hefted it in his hand. “Everyone has their price.”

“Hah. You can’t afford me, Doctor,” he snarled, and eyed Clara suspiciously again.

She was watching them intently from across the river, a hand cupped to her ear, trying to hear over the sound of the churning waters that flowed between them.

Ambrose continued, “That ring your … your _accomplice_ ” he pointed at Clara, “stole from me is going to cost me my life.” He lowered his head threateningly, and bared a wicked looking set of fangs. “So I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I shall need the ring from you now, Doctor,” he said, and held out his hand expectantly.

The Doctor shook his head, disappointed. He had warned him. 

“Well aside from the fact that she didn’t steal it but bought it from you, I’m sorry to have to disillusion you,” he said. He pocketed the bag of gold and held up his hands, showing that they were empty. “I don’t have it.”

“Oh, I think you do,” said the alien, and crouched down, clawed hands raised, ready to attack. 

Clara had seen and heard enough. The Doctor was in danger – it was time to act. 

“Hey! Alien fleabag!” she shouted from the far bank. Ambrose stopped his advance on the Doctor, and jerked his head to look at her. “Yeah! I’m talking to you!” She shouted, her eyebrows raised in scorn. “You looking for this?” She held up her right hand and waggled her fingers at him so he could clearly see the ring, which was still on her finger.

“CLARA, NO! What are you doing!?” The Doctor shouted, horrified.

“The ring!” Ambrose yelled.

Suddenly, impossibly, the alien badger-man sprang high into the air and leaped across the river in one bound. He landed right in front of Clara, lowered his head and held up a hand full of claws, and snarled.

“Give me the ring or I’ll rip you to shreds!”

The alien crouched low, snarling, prepared to spring. Adrenaline pumped through Clara’s veins, and she made a split-second decision. She slipped the ring off her finger and held it up for him to see.

“You want this, do you?” she taunted.

“NO CLARA!” The Doctor roared his disapproval from the opposite bank. “He’ll kill you!”

“Come and get it,” she flicked her fingers at the alien, and lowered her stance, ready to run.

“Filthy thief!” Ambrose screamed, and leapt.

“Doctor! Catch!” Clara yelled, and threw the ruby-stoned ring as hard as she could while jumping to one side, barely dodging Ambrose as he landed in the spot where she had stood seconds before. The ring soared high in the air, and it glinted in the moonlight as it arced towards the far bank where the Doctor waited. Ambrose turned on the spot and howled in frustrated rage.

The Doctor leaped up to catch the ring, his sonic held high, trying to project a force field towards the ring. But before he could grab it, the alien sprang into the air, bounded across the river and snatched the ring in midair with one black, razor-tipped claw. He landed near the Doctor, kicking up a spray of river gravel, cackling and snarling with malicious glee.

“It is mine! You’ve failed, Doctor, and now you will pay!” he shrieked.

Ambrose turned towards the Doctor, aimed the ruby stone at him, and fired. A red-hot beam of light shot out of the ring, narrowly missing him as he dove to the ground, crashing to the gravel and covering his head with his hands.

Instead of a colossal inter-dimensional explosion, however, the red beam twisted and shuddered until it began to fold back on itself. Both Clara and the alien gaped, dumbstruck, as a holographic shape began to form in the middle of the red beam.

After a few seconds the image fully resolved, revealing a floppy-haired, bow-tied, gangly young man holding a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. The image began to speak:

“Now to make a _really_ splendiferous custard, the kind that goes all wibbly on your spoon, you need to use fresh milk from Nana McCrimmon’s Jersey cows – be sure to ask for Bessie though, because Maggie can be rather cross and will try to kick you right into your next regeneration ….”

Clara smiled and clapped her hands together in surprise and jumped up and down with delight, even as Ambrose howled in rage.

“What sort of treachery is this!?” Ambrose screamed.

The Doctor stood up from where he’d landed and dusted off his trousers.

 “I was wondering where that recipe had gone. Thanks for finding it, ” he said, and reached into his pocket.  “I believe you’re looking for this?” He held up a tiny metal cube between his left index finger and thumb. In his right hand he brandished the fully extended sonic screwdriver, its tip aimed directly at the cube. His thumb was on the button of the sonic, ready to blast it.

“NO! You idiot! You’ll blow us all to smithereens!” the alien squealed.

“At least I’m taking you with me.” He glowered at Ambrose from beneath his formidable eyebrows, and waved the sonic threateningly at the cube. 

The alien’s dark eyes grew wide with fear, showing the whites: “You’re insane!” He threw the useless ring at the Doctor’s feet, and the hologram shut off.

“So I’ve been told. This is your last warning: either leave this planet and never return, or BOOM. And if I ever see your face again, I’ll have your head stuffed and mounted for a fireplace decoration, understand? You have three seconds. One…”

“You’re bluffing,” said Ambrose, not sounding at all certain of this accusation.

“Two…”

Ambrose hastily fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and grabbed a small red cylinder.

“Thr…”

Ambrose jabbed the cylinder into his arm, and in a puff of red mist, vanished.

Clara, meanwhile, had run across the footbridge and was sprinting towards the Doctor. Before he could stop her, she’d leapt onto him and grabbed him in a tight hug.

“…eeeee! Clara no!” yelled the Doctor.

“You did it! I knew you had a plan!” Clara beamed at him, but did not let go. The Doctor still held the metal cube in one hand and the sonic in the other, his arms pinned awkwardly to his sides by her embrace. 

“Ah -- We still need to get rid of this,” he said, nodding towards the cube. Clara smiled again and let go of the hug, then followed him as he dropped his arms and turned to head back to the TARDIS. Something glinted in the torchlight at the Doctor’s feet: the ring. Clara bent down and slipped the ring back onto her finger, and turned to follow him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter, plus an epilogue, wherein there is a cat.

**+++  TODAY: Monday, 29 September, 10 p.m.  +++**

 

The Doctor leaned out the open doors of the TARDIS, which he had placed into a close orbit around a lonely Red Giant star. He looked at the little silver cube in his hand, disgusted, then hurled it out the door and into space. Trapped in the massive star’s gravitational pull, the tiny, deadly bomb streaked and glowed like a comet for an instant, then burned to atoms, which in turn burned to harmless subatomic particles, and then into nothingness.

Clara and the Doctor watched it blaze in the darkness, then closed the TARDIS doors, and turned to look at each other.

“I missed you,” he said.

“I missed you, too,” she answered. “Every second.”

The Doctor gazed into Clara’s eyes for a very long minute, until the intensity of his stare made her so uncomfortable that she had to look away.

She fiddled with the now-quiet ring. “What should I do with this?” She asked, holding it up. “Is it safe now?”

He took the ring from her and scanned it with the sonic.

“It’s completely harmless. Unless you really hate custard,” he joked. He turned it over in his fingers, studying it. “This reminds you of me, does it?”

“Don’t be daft. Now more than ever.” She paused, then asked, “So. Now what? Just like old times, Doctor?” She smiled at him, hopeful.

_No. Not like old times_ , he thought to himself. _Like new ones_.

He gazed at her for another long moment, a solemn expression wrinkling his features, before saying, “Hold out your hand.”

Clara held up her right hand.

“Not that one,” he said, and reached for her left hand. A puzzled expression crossed her face.

“What are you doing, Doctor?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago,” he said, his voice full of regret. He slipped the ring over the third finger of her left hand and said, “I want you to keep it, Clara.”

_Did he mean keep the ring…or… something else_? Clara’s throat tightened.

When the Doctor raised the back of her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly, Clara’s breath hitched.

“Where I come from…” she could barely get the words out, “that’s the wedding finger, Doctor,” Clara said, her voice trembling. 

“I know,” he replied, now holding her hand in both of his own. He watched her closely, his eyes searching her face.

Clara couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was he…?

“Doctor,” she swallowed once, her mouth suddenly gone dry. “Are you proposing to me?”

He paused for a moment, and smiled gently at her.

“Do you want me to be?”

Stunned, her mind reeling, she stared back at him.

“I…” he started to say something, but his voice caught in his throat.

“You what, Doctor?”

He took a deep breath, then, softly, “I thought I’d really lost you this time. And it nearly killed me. I never want that to happen again, at least not as long as we’re both alive and breathing.”

Clara held her breath.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “I think I have always loved you. You have died for me, selflessly, countless times. Now I want you to live, Clara. Travel with me. For as long as you like. For the rest of your life… if you want.”

Clara didn’t respond. She just stared at him, speechless. The Doctor’s expression grew worried. Had he gone too far this time?

“Clara… say something…please.”

She jumped up then, and kissed him on the lips, wrapping her arms around his neck. Astonished, the Doctor stiffened for a moment, then he laughed into her mouth, his entire body relaxing with relief. He kissed her back, tenderly at first, then more passionately, reveling in the touch and taste and smell of every caress of her sweet lips.

After several minutes, they finally pulled apart, gazing into each other’s eyes and smiling.

“You didn’t even have to ask,” she said, her heart soaring, “but I’m glad you did. Of course. Yes, a thousand times yes.”

They both laughed with joy and hugged each other tightly, never wanting to let go.

  

**+++  TODAY: Monday, 29 September, 11 p.m.  +++**

 

The TARDIS materialized in a corner of Clara’s flat.

“How did you find out about Ambrose’s shop in the first place? Usually the only people who know about it are up to no good,” the Doctor asked her as they stepped out the blue door.

Her rooms were still the vandalized mess she’d found it in this afternoon, after presumably Ambrose or Spike had wrecked the place, and they fell silent as they looked around at the destruction. Clara noticed the Robert Frost book peeking out from under the overturned coffee table, and reached down to pick it up.

“In here,” she said, handing the book to the Doctor. “There was a card in the book.” 

He took the book from her and thumbed through the pages. The card was still inside, with the date scrawled on the back, marking the page just as she’d left it. The Doctor flipped the front of the book open to read the inscription, and raised an eyebrow in surprise. 

“How did you get this? This is my book.”

“Your book? No, Doctor, it’s JS’s book. Well, it’s _my_ book now.”

“No. Really. That’s me. John Smith. Robert gave this to me as a thank-you gift after a little adventure we shared.” 

Clara just stared at him and shook her head. _Seriously_? She thought. _I give up_. 

A sudden realization crossed his face. “Wait! There’s something we need to do…. What day did you say you found this book?”

She told him.

 

**+++ EPILOGUE: THREE DAYS AGO: Friday, 26 September, 1:30 a.m. +++**

 

The TARDIS materialized in the darkness of the closed and shuttered bookstore. The door creaked open, and Clara looked around before stepping out. The store cat stretched and wandered over to her, rubbing against her leg and purring.

“Put it exactly where you found it,” the Doctor said, close behind her.

“Won’t this create some kind of paradox?” Clara asked, placing the book on the poetry shelf. The cat jumped up onto the nearest table, and she reached to scratch behind its ears. 

“Nothing serious – it’s just a Paisley Loop. It’s nothing the time streams can’t handle,” he replied.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said to the Doctor. To the cat, she whispered, “Stay here, kitty. I promise I’ll be back later.”

“Don’t tell anyone, OK?” the Doctor said to the cat. The cat looked up at him with its one green eye and one blue eye, and winked. Clara turned to stare at the Doctor.

“What.” He shrugged. “I speak cat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I've included references to all thirteen Doctors in this story, and I'll put a key to the "Easter Eggs" in the comments. Did you spot them all?


End file.
